Novelas y relatos de Bleached Dreads

The towel hung low on Dale's hips, droplets of water trailing down his chest like tiny rivers mapping his skin as he stepped into his bedroom, rubbing his hair dry. His thick locks needed a helping hand to dry faster, the damp strands refusing to cooperate as usual. He envied Kirk's ability to let his hair dry naturally as if blessed by some mystical hair goddess. If Dale did that, his clothes would be a soaking mess. The moisture in his hair hid in wait like a sneaky saboteur, ready for a chance to ruin whatever he wore.

I let out a sharp breath and pushed the bedsheet away. “I really thought it was dye, I promise.” I defended myself, though not with much confidence, feeling quite confused. I truly believe that was bleach. I believed it was simply the natural shade of blue that would make it appear whiter. “Take a look,” she said, pulling out the bleach she had brought and opening it for me to see. It is nearly colorless, much like water. I trembled in disbelief; this was worse than anything I had ever experienced.

She was standing outside my bedroom door, with a pie in her hand, and her mouth on the floor. "Mom, relax. I just bleached them a little," She stepped closer and began assessing my hair more carefully. "You had beautiful brown hair and now it's all... white. Like old people white," "It's called platinum blonde," "What did you do that for?" "Well, tomorrow's the first day back to school. I just feel like it's time for a little change..." My whole high school career had been somewhat... bland. Zero love life, no dramas, and no fights. That sounded peaceful, yes, but also very boring.

Idris Raed watched me from the bed as I stood before the mirror and brushed my hair. Then braided the sides and coiled it in a swooping ponytail. The ember strands naturally swayed to my butt, showcasing their lustrous shine and thick volume. Withdrawing a white-blue skirt that swept the floor and a long-sleeved blouse from my suitcase, I changed in the bathroom, and applied a cherry lip gloss and smoky eyeliner before checking myself out in the mirror.

I wanted to tell myself that he enjoyed watching the process of his wife being made even more beautiful, but… I knew that he was just entranced by the methodic movements of my stylist, and nothing more. “Hmm,” my stylist said softly, pinching a strand of hair between her fingers. “Your hair is quite dry still, Luna. You may need another treatment.” I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “It’s been bleached within an inch of its life,” I admitted. My stylist frowned. “But your hair is a natural blonde, isn’t it? Why bleach it more?” Pausing, I glanced in the mirror and met Noah’s gaze. His jaw was set hard, his face betraying no emotion where there should have been. I had, after all, traded my

"How much do you want me to cut off?" "All of it. Any of the blonde. Just get rid of it. I'm never going back," Alex said with a flourish of her hand. Lexi giggled. Jimmy leaned back on his hands. A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. Lexi stood behind her and held out a long chunk of bleach blonde hair. Some of it real and some of it extensions. "Are you sure? It's going to be pretty short," Lexi said. "It's fine. It's not like I'm trying to attract a mate." Alex dropped her eyes and stared at her hands. An uncomfortable silence fell on the group and a sadness filled the air. Lexi continued to saw at pieces of hair. The blonde strands fell to the floor about her.

If I had money, I would have never done any of these. That means only one option is left. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to gather all the guts inside me. My heart pumps fast for what I am about to do. I can do this. It's just hair. They will grow back. Focus on the money. Freedom. It’s not even a week since I bleached and dyed my hair blue. I was so happy with the color and texture as it made me look like a species from Pandora. An Avatar Princess.

Stormie- Six hours and many dyes later, the color couldn’t be concealed. They have tried to bleach my hair to the point that it should be fried by now, but nothing worked. I was as baffled as them about my hair, but aside from shaving my head, nothing could be done.

Meanwhile, I’m about to fry my scalp to impersonate someone I haven’t spoken to since Twilight was still trending. “If I go bald,” I warn, “I’m moving into your penthouse and suing you for emotional distress.” “Technically, you’re already moving into my penthouse.” “Then I’ll sue you from the penthouse.” She snorts, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she goes to work, brushing the bleach through my chestnut hair like an artist preparing a canvas. And I do mean artist—this whole thing feels like performance art, the tragic kind where someone ends up crying and questioning the meaning of life.

They worked in silence, the only sound the gentle rustling of hair against fabric and the occasional splash of water. Once her hair was thoroughly detangled, the maids began the delicate process of fixing it. They wove the strands together, creating an intricate ombre effect that blended seamlessly from dark ebony at the roots to a soft, silvery white at the tips. The final touch was a loose braid that hung down her back, its ends tied with a simple ribbon. The effect was stunning—her hair seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, complementing her pale skin and accentuating the sharp angles of her face.